


After All of the Sparks [You're Still Alone in the Dark]

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alcohol, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has always struggled with the concepts of positive versus negative attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After All of the Sparks [You're Still Alone in the Dark]

**Author's Note:**

> I tried writing some porn for Steve's (and America's) birthday. It doesn't actually have anything to do with birthdays and I didn't get it posted in a timely manner, so now it's just porn.
> 
> Title from the song "Overthinking" by Reliant K, which could not have less to do with this fic, I just always liked the line.

Tony has always struggled with the concepts of positive versus negative attention. Daddy issues out the wazoo, substance abuse problem, sexually promiscuous – he’s got Poor Little Rich Boy coming out of his pores and it would all be terribly cliché if he wasn’t also a Mensa-member-humanitarian-slash-titanium-plated-superhero. So yeah, he’s a therapist’s dream and nightmare rolled into one but that’s not the point. Attention is the point and getting his fill of it. Which isn’t actually a thing that exists - the whole world could tune into the Tony Stark Channel 24/7 and he doubts even that would be enough to sate the blackhole of need, but again, circle back, where was he?  
  
Yes, right, attention – the good, the bad and the ugly, he’ll take all comers. So all things considered, he doesn’t think anyone should be shocked when he reverts to self-destruct mode once the rest of the team moves in to the mansion.  
  
Drinking’s a given and not even something he thinks about. Besides, with an Asgardian in the house, a Russian, and an arrow-slinging assassin with a machismo complex, drinking contests are practically required. Like the booze, not eating or sleeping is really more Tony’s life philosophy than intentional self-harm, but, as he’d discovered far too quickly with Pepper, there’s something so much more viscerally satisfying about doing it when someone’s around to fuss over it.  
  
That someone, both unexpected and not, happens to be Steve, and that’s its own other can of worms.  
  
He supposes he can’t blame his father – not that he’s going to let that stop him – for never shutting the hell up about Cap when Tony was growing up. Having a national icon for a friend probably isn’t the kind of thing anybody could just shake off and now that he’s actually met Steve, it makes even more sense. The man uses the word ‘gosh’ without irony. A person shouldn’t be able to be that _good_.  
  
Basically, Steve has managed to hit the ‘daddy never hugged me’ button, on top of the ‘punish people who care about me’ button, on top of the ‘does not play well with others’ and ‘has problems with authority figures’ buttons. Not to mention the childhood hero-worship thing and the fact that less perfect specimens of the male form have been chiseled out of marble by master sculptors. Anyone who's surprised that Tony becomes obsessed with getting Steve to notice him by whatever means necessary clearly doesn't know Tony very well.  
  
For a while the arguments were enough, fighting Cap for every inch in team meetings or sparring matches or missions. Then that wasn’t giving him his fix so Tony started picking at him, setting the lights in his room to come on every hour during the night, making the TV randomly scan if the channel stayed fixed for more than ten minutes, screwing with the programming on his keycard so it would only let him into the house on odd-numbered minutes. It led to more fights, which was fine by Tony until the big tattle-tale got Fury involved and Tony almost lost his slot on the team. Again.  
  
That’s when he started to bring boys home.  
  
What could be better, right? Combining the drinking, which Steve already disapproved of, with clubbing and deviant, homosexual encounters, all in front of a man for whom the idea of condoms was still so scandalous as to be blush-worthy. It was an excellent plan, and one with the upshot of getting Tony laid on the regular.  
  
Naturally Steve had to go and blow the whole thing out of the water with this weird, tight-lipped acceptance that would look a lot more familiar if Steve had red hair, tits, and a strawberry allergy.  
  
As far as Tony’s concerned, that just means he has to try harder.  
  
Tony’s stumbling a little, brain soaked through with the bite of tequila he can still taste on the tongue getting friendly with his tonsils. He’s purposefully avoided asking for the guy’s name because somehow that just seems dirtier than not making any effort to remember it. His shoulder twinges when he bumps against the framed picture of something or other that Pepper had hung in the hallway. He’s sure it’s very tasteful. Wishes it didn’t have such a sharp frame, though. But then it’s better because the guy is pressing him up against the bedroom door, a nice firm surface for him to-  
  
Since when is the bedroom door _warm_?  
  
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”  
  
Tony would startle at the sound of Steve’s voice way too close, except he’s kind of trapped between whatshisname and the warm-and-breathing bedroom door that he has no choice but to conclude is actually Steve. And wow, actually, that would be a hell of a feature, now that he thinks about it – a Steve Rogers in place of every door in the mansion, make a damn fine security system and it adds to the décor.  
  
Wait, stop, alto. First things first – be insulted about being kicked out of his own house, then start devising cloning-based-furniture projects.  
  
“Hey, I live here. I _own_ here,” he says indignantly, tipping his head back to look Steve in the… ear.  
  
Alright, it is suddenly occurring to Tony that he is, in fact, molded all up against Steve, back to front, and that fact is doing a lot more for his libido that the epiglottis frisking he was just getting from- where did that dude go?  
  
“You’re staying. He’s leaving,” Steve says without actually taking his eyes off of oh hey, there’s that guy! He’s cowering against the wall opposite Tony’s bedroom in not spectacularly appealing way, not that Tony can fault him. The full force of the ‘give me liberty or give me death’ glare is pretty intimidating even if you see it coming. Blindsided like that in the middle of a hookup, with no prior Cap experience, Tony’d probably be a wreck too.  
  
“I didn’t-“ the guy manages to choke out before Steve – holy shit, did that just happen? – _interrupts_ with, “I understand. If you’ll kindly return the way you came, Mr. Hogan will drive you home.”  
  
“You don’t get to-“ Tony’s just working up to a really good rant – it’s harder to do after several hours of dedicated drinking – when Steve cuts him off too – someone has been teaching the Captain bad habits – with a one-two punch of, “Shut up, Tony,” and a squeeze of the hand that suddenly appears on Tony’s hip.  
  
Tony’s not especially good at shutting up when told under normal circumstances, it’s more the hand thing on this particular occasion that makes him do it, and the fact that his brain fuzzes out, radio-silent.  
  
“JARVIS,” Steve carries on while Tony’s stuck trying to remember words other than ‘Steve. Has. Huge. Hands. Fuck.’ “Will you please make sure this gentleman finds his way back to the front door?”  
  
“Of course, sir,” JARVIS chimes in, ever helpful. If anything the guy looks less freaked out by the disembodied British voice giving him directions than by Steve’s protective father routine.  
  
Tony musters up a slightly-more-dazed-than-it-should-be, “Traitor,” directed at the ceiling as he watches his would-be cock-du-jour stumble away, shooting nervous glances over his shoulder.  
  
In general, Tony tries to have slightly less alcohol than this in his system when he has to deal with Steve. Not because he cares what Steve thinks, but more because he has the tendency to shoot off at the mouth when he’s drunk – despite some suggestions to the contrary, Tony has a perfectly functional brain-mouth filter when he’s sober, just sometimes he chooses to ignore it – and there are things in his head that aren’t any of Steve’s business. That’s the best answer he’s got for why it takes him until Steve has spun him around and marched him into the bedroom to work up a decent tantrum.  
  
“You had no right! What I do with my personal life-“  
  
“Is not your personal life when you’re bringing strangers into the team’s home.” Steve, with the interruption hat-trick, grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around again so they’re face to face. Tony ends up clinging to his biceps for balance because that’s way too much spinning in a thirty second time span for somebody with his blood-alcohol level. Also, _Steve’s biceps_ – they deserve to be clung to at all available opportunities.  
  
It puts him disconcertingly close to the frustrated furrow marring Steve’s forehead. “I know you like to think you’re invincible, but you’re a human being, Tony. A very famous, rich one and there are lots of people out there who would be more than happy to hurt you. Bringing home strangers and letting them do who knows what to you…” He sighs and his hands cup Tony’s elbows, maneuvering him to lean against the wall for balance. “You are an Avenger, and when you put yourself in danger it affects all of us.”  
  
The human thing stings, too close to that ‘what are you without the armor’ that’s been knocking around in his head for longer than the team has been an idea. Steve’s got a special talent for cutting him to the quick. If it wasn’t for the couple of decades between Operation Rebirth and his own grand entrance into existence, he’d be tempted to think dear old dad slipped something extra into the formula just for that purpose.  
  
“Yeah, well, human beings have needs,” he shrugs, tosses off his best ‘for the cameras’ smile, “unlike some people around here. And unless you’re going to start pimping us out to each other- What are you doing?”  
  
Steve seems very determined this evening to not let Tony get his rant on. Stripping out of his shirt is a very effective method of doing so, Tony has to admit, seeing as he can’t seem to tear his attention away from the amber waves of abdominals staring him in the face. Unorthodox, but effective.  
  
“You’re the genius. Figure it out,” Steve snaps, reaching for his belt.  
  
“I was just kidding about the pimping- I- could you stop that?”  
  
“No. If you’re that desperate for,” the belt buckle rings loud when Steve fumbles it, “for _sex_ , then you’ll have to make do with me.”  
  
Tony’s 93.4- scratch that, make it 94.68% sure that the palladium poisoning never made him hallucinate, and since he’s not even using the palladium anymore, that can’t possibly be the problem. Alternative answers: 1) The new core element is slowly killing him and trying to bribe him into not doing anything about it by sending him sensory-interactive gifts from his spank bank. 2) Reed Richards did something and they’ve all been transferred to an alternate universe where Steve is pro-Tony-boning. Either way, he can probably afford to hold off on doing something about it until after Steve’s naked. Won’t take long, at the rate he’s going.  
  
“You know I’m a guy, right?” Tony’s voice comes out a little numb as he watches Steve kick his jeans off – he’d have bet a lot of money Cap would feel compelled to fold them, but they’re just lying there in an incriminating crumple on Tony’s carpet – and tries to remind himself that tighty-whiteys are not sexy.  
  
“Iron _Man_ was something of a tip off.” Steve raises an eyebrow at him – oh someone has _really_ been teaching the Captain bad habits; Tony wonders if it was him – and reaches out to start working on Tony’s clothes.  
  
“You don’t…” The rest of the sentence gets wiped out of his head by the quick efficiency of Steve’s fingers unfastening his shirt buttons. Again, not sexy. Fingers are not allowed to be sexy, at least not while they’re not inside of somebody. “That’s not a problem for you?”  
  
Steve’s sigh sounds annoyed - Tony would know, he’s very familiar with annoyed Cap – but it also happens to tickle warm breath across Tony’s ear, so it feels like a very mixed message.  
  
“Tony, before the serum, I was in art school,” he explains practically, like he’s not overloading Tony’s fantasy-circuits by getting down on his knees. Sure, it’s to start untying Tony’s shoelaces, but that’s not the important factor. “Things weren’t as open then as they are now, but there were all sorts of guys. Good guys, some of them. I don’t see any reason to judge somebody for what they feel.”  
  
“Ok, yeah, but you get-“ Expecting Tony to be able to string together a sentence right now should qualify as cruel and unusual punishment. Which he suppose explains why he’s the one doing it to himself. “I mean, do you know what you’re offering?”  
  
Yes, that’s definitely annoyed-Steve; that is an extremely familiar annoyed-Steve face looking up at him from crotch-level as he unfastens Tony’s fly. “From what I understand you’re an expert. You can guide me around the curves.”  
  
“JARVIS, make a reminder for me to check the reactor core for mineral leeching,” he commands, obediently stepping out of his pants when Steve taps him on the calf. “And to call Reed Richards.”  
  
Steve unfolds himself from his crouch, towering over the scant inches of height difference between them, and then Tony’s kissing Captain America, which might just be the deadliest sin he’s ever committed.  
  
It’s… it’s exactly how Cap would kiss and not even close. All soft and insistent, not forcing it on him, but not letting him get away from it either, wet and hot and he should not be kissed like this when his balance is already tenuous because his knees are going to give out in approximately 8 seconds. Not that it matters with Steve’s hands hanging on to his hips, probably more than capable of supporting Tony’s weight. Probably more than capable of supporting several Tonys’ weights. Probably mostly supporting it now.  
  
“That’s-“ Tony breathes as their mouths separate. Pepper was right, Tony does not know when to shut the hell up. “That wasn’t wholesome at all.”  
  
Steve gives him exactly zero extra space iin response to the critique, although his shoulders do tense under the arms Tony in no way remembers flinging around his neck like a rescued damsel.  
  
“Is that a problem?” Steve asks, a weird mix of challenging and genuine.  
  
And Tony really cannot allow Steve to get self-conscious about his technique – it’s a service to the goddamn nation – so he makes sure there’s no room for misinterpretation in the way he knots his fingers in Steve’s hair and growls, “Fuck no, do that shit again.”  
  
That is, evidently, all the encouragement Steve needs to pull Tony in tight and go to town on his mouth. Tony has not one fucking clue what screwed up leadership instinct is making Steve think he’s got to do this, but it would take a saint – a sober saint - to turn down the slippery-smooth twine of anticipation and apprehension curling up tight in Tony’s chest right now, and he’s been accused of being many things over the years, but sainthood has never been one of them.  
  
Between Tony’s undershirt and boxers and Steve’s briefs there is way too much fabric between them, but for the moment he can live with the hot, firm ripple of Steve’s chest under his palms, the stunned sound Steve makes when Tony’s hand dives below the waist and grips him through his underwear to find Steve gratifyingly hard.  
  
The delighted, “Big boy,” that starts to come out of his mouth gets mauled to death by a hiss when Steve’s fingers clench, one accidentally finding a days-old bruise below Tony’s kidney.  
  
He’s barely had time to register it before Steve’s backing himself up, rushed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” getting tangled with Tony’s, “It’s fine, don’t stop.” But of course, Steve does, because he’s _Steve_ and he’s already managed to hike Tony’s undershirt up to check out the damage.  
  
“Tony,” Steve whispers, the horror in his voice like a funeral march for the fantastic time that almost was. “How-“  
  
Tony’s brain has been moving sluggishly since before this all started and the drugging hit of lust in his system that hasn’t gotten the cease-fire message isn’t helping matters any. He’s still, unfortunately, more than up to the task of understanding the expressions that morph Steve’s face as his fearless leader thinks back through the uneventful couple of weeks they’ve had and Tony’s late-night activities and comes to the obvious conclusion. What he’s not expecting is for Steve to look mad about it.  
  
“What in the world have you been letting them do to you?”  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Steve starts manhandling Tony’s shirt the rest of the way off, slapping the hand Tony’s still got on his junk away with a testy, “Stop that,” when it gets in the way. Tony puts in a little effort to try and get Steve to back off, but pitting himself against superserum is a lost cause, so he gives up quickly and dedicates his energy to fighting the urge to cover his chest with his arms once Steve has freed him from the fabric.  
  
Between the excessively informative SHIELD files Tony’s seen Steve has access to and the crazy situations their jobs put them in, he knows that the sight of the reactor and the mess it made of Tony’s chest isn’t anything new for Cap. That doesn’t do a damn thing to soothe the knee-jerk need to hide it when those baby-blues cruise his torso. There’s a reason Tony usually fucks with his shirt on and it’s got nothing to do with overzealous fans being too interested in the nightlight plugged into his sternum.  
  
It’s what makes him flinch and his eyes twitch closed when Steve reaches out to brush impossibly gentle fingers over the mottle of burgundy and healing yellow that’s connect-the-dotted into Tony’s skin.  
  
“I like it rough.” His flippant shrug doesn’t do a thing to dislodge Steve’s roaming hand. “It’s a thing.”  
  
He wants badly to come up with something smartass to say, something to deflect with, maybe piss Steve off. Something about being an old man or not understanding how people do it nowadays. But everything that leaps to mind falls flat in his head and he knows it’d be even worse out loud. All he can do is stand there and take it as Steve traces the path of one bruise down to his hip, the heat of his palm hovering tentatively for a second before he smooths the elastic waistband of Tony’s boxers down until silk is puddling around his ankles.  
  
His touch is so light that the nerves keep tingling in its wake long after Steve has moved on, mapping out all the little hurts Tony long-ago got adept at ignoring. Heat sparks, unexpected, when Steve stops at a mark high on the inside of Tony’s thigh; a hickey, he thinks, if he’s remembering right. Steve rubs his knuckles over it like they’re made of feathers, says low and certain, “You don’t like this.”  
  
Broken-bottle sharp, it slices into Tony's gut, leaves him breathless in a tightly wound moment. With a monumental effort, he makes himself push past it, gathering that familiar old mask tight around him as he shoves Steve’s hand aside and forces himself in close instead.  
  
“Ditch the skivvies and I’ll show you what I like.” His voice pours out like smoke, curling around the shape of Steve's ear before Tony leans up to suck on the lobe. It's not hard to use the tiny huff Steve makes like a key to rev his own engine, squeezing all the other thoughts and feelings out around a humming core of want. With the heat comes the confidence, the will to let go and be shameless.  
  
"C'mon," he moans straight into Steve's ear, gaining a shiver for the trouble as the starts working the band of Steve's underwear down over the curve of his ass. "Once in a lifetime opportunity here, Cap. Mess me up, push me around, make me beg. The rest of the team would line up for a turn to get to do whatever they want to me and it's all yours. Fuck me up however you wanna, I'm gonna love it. I'll take everything you've got."  
  
The briefs finally give up the ghost and slip away down Steve's thighs. Then it's just Steve's cock, burning hot where it digs into Tony's stomach, leaving little trails on his skin. Steve moans quietly, almost as forlorn as the, “Tony,” he whispers like a reprimand.  
  
His hands are jumpy in the dip of Tony’s spine, but they’re not actually doing anything besides some half-ass rubbing as if he’s trying to bring Tony down, soothe him or something ridiculous like that.  
  
Time to pull out a few more stops.  
  
"How d'you like it, Cap? You want it loose and wet, break me open on those thick fingers of yours, get me all soft and slick inside?" He's scraping the words off of his tongue with the fine grit of late night stubble of Steve’s throat, hooking a hand up behind his back to catch said fingers and snug a couple into the cleft of his ass.  
  
An all-over jolt works its way through Steve's muscles and Tony'd swear he can feel the heat of a blush against his lips but Steve turns his head into it, practically trapping Tony with the hard jut of his jaw, rough breaths ruffling Tony’s hair. It’s just as well, Steve’s got this way of looking at him like Tony’s soul is etched right behind his optic nerve and the last thing he wants to risk right now is losing this chance by Steve seeing too much of him. What he needs is to keep fucking talking so Steve’s Jiminy Cricket doesn’t get any ideas. "Give me four of 'em? More? Think I could take the whole thing? You've got big hands, bet they'd feel huge up in me, leave me gaping so your dick could slide on in easy."  
  
There's a tremble all through Steve's frame that Tony probably would notice if he wasn't using the guy for a jungle gym. Steve’s hands are still making those same infuriatingly small motions, only now, with the placement, things are a little more interesting. Molten shivers Tony doesn’t bother to hide run up his spine every time Steve pets at his hole, the worst kind of cocktease in the fucking world cranked on up to unbearable by the fact that he’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t even mean for it to be one.  
  
Getting free to lick at the shape of Steve's mouth is trickier than any aerial acrobatics Tony’s ever pulled, but it’s worth it when he finds Steve’s lips slack, twitchy when Tony starts murmuring against them like Steve can't decide whether to kiss him or not.  
  
"Or maybe you like it tight, huh? Wanna work for it? Lube me up and open me on your dick, make me feel you for days?"  
  
Steve's breathing is a mess, torn apart against Tony's lips and the flicks of tongue he keeps sneaking in. And Steve’s mouthing back, tentative, so much more self-conscious than the kisses that just about melted Tony’s bones a few minutes back, but not actually any less good. He’s making these faint, hurt noises like a lost puppy and leaking all over Tony's belly, so close to the frayed end of his control that Tony can taste how sweet it is.  
  
"Come on, sugar, give me something here,” he lets the words twist into something between a taunt and a plea, hitches a leg up onto Steve’s hip just to thrill in the way Steve doesn’t even have to shift his weight to compensate for it. “Hate sex is no fun if you don't put a little oomph into it."  
  
It hits him the second Steve locks up against him that it was the wrong thing to say. By that time, though, he’s got Steve’s hands on his shoulders holding him at arm’s length so that Steve can give him this look like-  
  
Fuck, that’s not even fair. Steve shouldn’t be allowed to look at Tony with those big, innocent eyes and make him feel like the asshole in this situation. _Steve’s_ the guy who showed up out of the blue and fucked Tony’s plan for the evening all to hell by being a self-sacrificing bastard trying to very literally take one for the team. And now he’s just standing there throwing all this shock-stupid hurt at Tony like the goddamn shield. Actually, given the choice, Tony would take the shield.  
  
“You think I hate you?” He looks more upset than Tony’s seen him in their worst fights. More even than he’d been during the low blow extravaganza of their very first knock down drag out on the SHIELD helicarrier.  
  
“No, I didn’t- It’s a turn of phrase, it’s not-“ Tony catches himself in the middle of apologizing for the horrendous crime of accusing Captain America of having less than charitable emotions. “New rule – ignore everything I say when I’m hard. Ok? Awesome! Now where were w-“  
  
Given the well-meaning authoritarian thing Steve’s been laying on him all evening, Tony doesn’t think he can be blamed for being anything other than poleaxed to find himself turned around and herded backward so fast he ends takes himself out at the knees with the mattress by a big, blonde jungle cat that seems to have suddenly possessed Steve’s body. The reactor’s mechanics don’t recalibrate based on Tony’s pulse, but for a second there he’s sure that the thing glows brighter.  
  
“I don’t waste my time on things that I hate,” Steve says, the deadly seriousness of it painted icy by the light in Tony’s chest. He puts a knee to the mattress, hands braced on either side of Tony’s head as he leans in close enough to wash Tony’s lips in his breath. Having a coronary would really ruin the mood, Tony thinks, trying to quiet the racing beat of heart and the toasty, fuzz-ball clichés purring happily in his stomach.  
  
“Would if Fury told you to,” he hears himself mumble, all of the pique rolling back out of him like low tide as Steve settles their hips together and solves Tony’s mild-to-moderate whiskey dick issue with one swivel. Sometimes he really hates his own pathological need to get the last word.  
  
The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up, sardonic almost, except for how Steve doesn’t do shit like that. Then again, Steve doesn’t do shit like grind himself against Tony’s naked cock, either, so hey, miracles.  
  
“Do you honestly want to talk about Nick right now?” The last couple of words are brushed into Tony’s lips, prelude to the pleased sound Steve makes like a laugh grafted onto a snarl when Tony chases the not-quite kiss helplessly.  
  
But Steve, for some idiotic reason, seems to be waiting for Tony to actually answer before he’ll do anything - as if Tony even remembers the question anymore - so he gives it his best shot with, “Maybe I’ve got an eyepatch kink.”  
  
This go around it’s definitely a laugh that comes rumbling out of Steve into the curve of Tony’s jaw. Any other time, making Steve laugh would be enough to leave Tony feeling smug for the rest of the day, but at the moment he’s too busy worrying that his skin is going to peel off if Steve doesn’t _do_ something more than lazily hump Tony into the looney bin.  
  
He’s not even ashamed at how thready his whine of, “Steeeve,” sounds as he presses up into the soul-rendingly slow rock of Steve’s hips. In response, Steve hums a meaningless noise and continues mapping out the terrain of Tony’s throat with his tongue. Which is nice, don’t get Tony wrong, but he’s been fantasizing about what it would be like to get fucked by Captain America since he figured out what the equipment between his legs was for and this molasses slow-sweet program Steve’s on is just not going to get him there.  
  
He thinks the point comes across when he hooks a leg over Steve’s hip for leverage to rub himself off against Steve’s cock at a much faster pace. The results aren’t quite what he was hoping for, though, because all Steve does is pull back long enough to disentangle himself and then pins Tony’s leg to the bed with a firm, but careful hand.  
  
“Shush, Anthony.” It’s an order, Cap-face and everything and it hits Tony hard enough, right in the balls, that he can’t do anything but lay there and blink until Steve nods to himself and bends down to nuzzle at Tony’s belly instead.  
  
The weight of the attention thrums through him like that first magnet Yinsen had shoved into his ribcage, raw car-battery electricity sputtering close to the surface, too intense to breathe through at intervals. Can’t really decide if he likes it or not, but it’s got him kitten-weak and moaning regardless as Steve mouths at somebody else’s – several somebody else’s – marks on his skin.  
  
Like he’s making a game out of torturing Tony, Steve makes his way down slow. Gets as far as Tony’s navel before his lips skate back up, catch on a nipple for a moment before side-stepping up onto the scar-numb flesh surrounding the reactor.  
  
The grunt of protest it punches out of Tony is ragged, every inch of him trying to jerk away from the contact even though he can’t feel a damn bit of it. Steve blots out Tony’s, “Stop,” with a hushing noise and presses a slow kiss to the face of the reactor, eyes lit inhumanly blue as they look up at him.  
  
“I don’t want you going out like that anymore, or bringing people back here. Not for this. If you need to feel something, I can make you feel.”  
  
Tony’s entirely too well acquainted with his issues for that to lay him out the way it does. He’s got his damn issues on the Christmas card list for fuck’s sake, what the hell is this fluttery, flushed, heart-sore business?  
  
“I d-“  
  
“I told you to shush,” Steve says, drill-sergeant tone gone playful around the edges. Doesn’t matter anyway because Tony’s never worked out how to talk with someone else’s tongue in his mouth and he’s not particularly inclined to try now.  
  
Alright, substitute theory to the hallucination/alternate universe propositions – Steve sold his soul in return for the ability to shut Tony up whenever he wants. And having sex with Tony was part of the bargain, for some reason. That really only makes sense if Tony was the one Steve sold his soul to, which sounds like the kind of thing that Tony would remember, but maybe it’s some conglomeration of soul selling and the hallucinations and/or quantum fluxes.  
  
“I meant up here too,” Steve breaks off to tap a finger against Tony’s forehead, “You think too much.”  
  
“Genius,” Tony points out automatically, more interested in getting Steve’s mouth back on his.  
  
“So they keep telling me.” The look Steve shoots at him is exasperated but fond with a little bit of teasing thrown in. If anyone ever finds out about the gooey swoon thing Tony’s insides just did he’s going to die of mortification. He’s way too old to go turning into a teenage girl.  
  
Then Steve’s kissing him again, deep and thorough, and it’s hard to keep up with that train of thought.  
  
A moan rattles in his lungs when Steve reaches between them to wrap both of their cocks with powerful fingers, shaky and fumbling like he’s never touched a dick before. Probably never _has_ touched one besides his own, Tony realizes, with a sudden backlash of desire.  
  
It shouldn’t be a surprise, Steve had essentially said as much earlier, but still there’s a livewire thrill to the idea of being the first to have Steve like this. The first to have him, period, possibly. It’s not like Steve had a lot of time on his hands between the full-model upgrade and the big chill, what with fighting a world war and all, and he hasn’t exactly been the most social guy since. In fact, it’s more than plausible, it’s downright _likely_ that Steve’s pristine as the day he was born.  
  
Tony’s not sure how long he’s had his legs locked around Steve’s back by the time he bothers to pay attention to it, but he uses the leverage to fuck up into the grip of Steve’s hand. A fresh burst of heat breaks out over his neck, pulse pounding in his temples as he swipes his tongue out to get a taste of the sweat dampening Steve’s cheek. “It’s ok, you can fuck me. Want you to fuck me. Steve, please.”  
  
Steve groans over the sound of his fingers straining against pulled-taut sheets. The other tightens reflexively around them, making Tony hiss and squirm at the not quite painful pressure, as Steve buries his face against Tony’s neck.  
  
There’s no telling which of them his, “Shh, shh,” is meant for before he whatever he was about to say gets lost on a hiccupping sound. “Not like this. If I,” Steve stutters, free hand palming the back of Tony’s head, gripping hard enough to suggest that he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “If we sleep together, I want you sober, and- _mmnh_ , with nobody else on you. And. _Geez, Tony._ ” He nuzzles at Tony’s skin, whispers into his ear like a secret, “I’d want you in me first.”  
  
For a second, Tony’s sure he’s done – light’s out, game over, TKO. That wasn’t even dirty talk but coming out of Steve’s mouth it sounds like the filthiest thing anybody’s ever thought up. Except for how maybe it’s not, because Steve’s pulling back far enough to look down at him like he thinks Tony’s going to send him to time out as he asks, “Is that ok? I mean, do you do that or is it just the- the other way that you like?”  
  
Tony, for his part, can barely get a word out around the shallow gulps of air he’s sucking in to try and talk himself down from the edge. “If you’re trying to make me pop first, bang up job, Cap.”  
  
Steve’s face goes from confused to shocked to pleased in the pace of a double-time heartbeat. “Yeah?”  
  
Purely out of self-defense, Tony chokes out, “Tongue, fuck, need to suck your tongue.” Steve’s going to kill him if he just keeps saying shit like that.  
  
With the reactor, he can’t get much of a feel of Steve’s chest through his own – has a second to wonder if the dig of metal is hurting him and decides Steve’s the guy on top so he can work it out if he wants to shift around – but there’s no way to ignore the race of the pulse under his fingertips where Tony’s got them curled around the back of Steve’s neck. Could just be the serum, advanced metabolism probably requires advanced bloodflow, but the sensation gets its hooks in him anyway. Steve Roger’s heart racing for him.  
  
He can count on one hand the number of people he’s fucked who were actually people. Not human – they were all human, in so far as he knows, although his life does lend itself to certain ineffable quandaries of- off track. What he means is, most of those bodies who’ve warmed his bed were just that, bodies, people with names his brain threw away before they were finished giving them because even his grey matter knows there’s no point wasting space on them.  
  
Steve’s not like that, could never be even if Tony wanted him to and he’s not really sure he does. Steve is Captain America; a hero and a leader and teammate. A man who lost everything to an accident of fate and still puts his life on the line constantly for no other reason than that he believes the human race is worth it. A man who’d show up at the door of a guy who’s never done anything but make his life miserable and still offer him anything. He just might be psychotic and it’s not even funny how easy it would be for Tony to fall in love with him.  
  
Considering he was about two-fifths of the way there before they even chiseled Steve out of the ice, it hardly seems like a fair fight.  
  
Then again, Tony’s got advantages of his own.  
  
Steve trickles this honeyed keening into Tony’s mouth through their sealed lips when Tony makes good on his promise and starts sucking at the slick muscle shoved into his mouth. His cock twitches against Tony’s so hard it seems painful, another warm spill of precome slicking up Tony’s cockhead as Steve rubs them together artlessly.  
  
Giving up the flex of Steve’s shoulders against his palm, Tony reaches down and slots his fingers in between Steve’s to help guide him. For somebody who spends his occupational hours ordering around superheroes, Steve’s surprisingly good at letting Tony take the lead. And by surprisingly good, Tony means hot as fuck, because the feeling when Steve stops trying to control what’s going on and lets the rhythm go stuttering and needy is better than any recreational substance Tony’s ever had watering down his bloodstream.  
  
“Tony,” comes out of him fervent as a prayer, skids across Tony’s cheek when Steve gives up on kissing and just presses their faces together. His hand’s still sticky with precome as it slides up Tony’s chest, traces around a nipple. Too much pressure on the socket to tell, but Tony knows that the fan of Steve’s fingers is wide enough that he’s touching the reactor too, strange and new and way too meaningful for the little bit of nothing there is to it.  
  
Steve bucks hard enough that they move a couple of inches up the bed. The hot sting of friction burn distracts Tony for a blink, just long enough that he doesn’t quite catch the start of it when Steve goes still over him, spasms, clenches, comes. Liquid heat slicks up Tony’s grip, adds a little extra glide he doesn’t really need to get off on the feel of all that power crumbling for him.  
  
Cold air floods in when Steve rolls off of him, one hand plastered to Tony’s stomach, as if Tony’s got the muscle control to try moving anyway. The room is quiet for a long while, or else it’s not and Tony just can’t hear anything over the endorphins playing bongos in his head.  
  
It could be a minute or an hour later that he hears Steve say something he actually has enough wits to pull a meaning out of.  
  
“Wow,” is what he gets, as close to breathless as Steve ever is, “That wasn’t what I was expecting at all.”  
  
Tony’s still a little too frazzled to keep the ego-stung bite out of it when he answers, “What were you expecting?”  
  
Either oblivious or else too experienced in the emotional hostage negotiation 101 that is Tony’s interpersonal relationships, Steve just shrugs, “I don’t know. Red and gold fireworks? A theme song?”  
  
“Think you have the theme song market cornered, Cap. JARVIS, cue up Star-Span-“  
  
“Belay that, JARVIS!” Steve shouts over him, diving across the few inches of space between them to cover Tony’s mouth with a hand that still smells like cock.  
  
Tony’s impulse is to be annoyed, but he finds himself laughing instead, part loopy from the admittedly spectacular orgasm and part completely unable to resist the easy, puppyish playfulness in the smile glinting down at him.  
  
“Sometimes you make it very hard to remember why I like you,” Steve says, but the stern tone doesn’t touch the softness in his eyes.  
  
Tony stomps down on the urge to ask for confirmation that Steve just admitted to liking him, mainly out of fear Steve will snap out of his temporary insanity and take it back. If JARVIS is doing his job half as well as Tony programmed him to, he’ll have it all on video anyway.  
  
But then Steve is settling down against him, a long hot line at his side, one massive thigh thrown over his as effective as a bear trap, and he can’t remember what he wanted to ask anyway.  
  
“I meant it, Tony,” his voice as eased to match the curve of his mouth, fond and worried all at the same time. “No more strangers.”  
  
Clearly Steve knows Tony too well, because he gets a 15 degree angle out of it at best when he goes to turn his head away, the joke he’d planned gummed up on a wad of truth in his throat. “Never took you for the possessive type.”  
  
Somehow Steve manages to slink in closer yet, tipping Tony up for a molar-achingly sweet kiss before he breathes, “There’s all sorts of things you don’t know about me.”  
  
Tony’s still not entirely convinced that this isn’t all some figment of his imagination or a cruel trick of dimension-hopping, but it’s hard to argue with when the alcohol and sleep-deprivation are starting to gang up on him, courtesy of Steve’s fingers carding rhythmically through his hair. If it isn’t real, he can’t really think of a reason why he’d want to know anyway. He’s looking way too forward to finding out what else Steve’s been hiding up his sleeve.


End file.
